I just finished the second season of Orange is the New Black. If you haven't seen either season, the hype is real. It's fantastic. Rich diverse characters fleshed out by actors who nail equally rich performances. But it's funny. And it will break your heart. And the perfectly clever music over the end credits for each episode makes you almost okay with the fact that the episode is over.

But you know this already because if you're my people, you have already seen it. So, let's go deeper. Because I learned some sh-t. About the world and myself and boobs. There will be *mild spoilers* ahead, so only read if you're all caught up.

My ugly cry is not the worst in the world

Oh, bless Taylor Schilling. She is surrounded by a lot of ugly sh-t this season - scheming, porn mustaches, locks in socks, giant bags of manure, lying exes, backed up pipes and urine in buckets, but the ugliest thing this season by far is her crying face. Right? In action, it's spectacular. And all I can see is the moon from that old McDonald's campaign. Yeah?

Old black boobs are better than old white boobs

Even though V is the devil incarnate, her boobs are solid gold compared to Kathy Bates. These are the only old boobs I've ever seen so this isn't a scientific fact per se, but I've never claimed to be a scientist.

Forget Wu-Tang Clan - Old Ladies are Nuthing Ta F-ck Wit

The incarcerated seniors introduced this season blow your mind because we imagine Grandma's being all lavender and forgetful. Needlepoint and pointed old stories about your parents to learn from. Polyester and tortoise frames. NOT raspy voiced tough-as-nails hard asses with tattooed octopi tentacles creeping up their necks. Or attempted murderers with snow white locks and terrible vision. Forget about gas prices and how I met your grandfather, I want these no-nonsense bitches to tell me all their tales.

The Writers Hate My Name

The worst new character introduced this season is a dumb young tree-hugger named Brooke. My name is one of those names that is rarely on commemorative license plates. So, when I do meet another Brooke (maybe once a year), I glom on all "HEY SAME NAME!" And when the character you most want to kick in the vagina has your name, it's a weird life indeed.

I Would Die In Prison

First, there would be nothing gluten free for me to eat, other than mealy apples and crunchy eggs. And the fact that I would have to lean in tight to the fogged over cafeteria-style display and ask the mustachioed women manning big heavy spoons if that, this or that thing was gluten free - that's me just BEGGING for a shank in the forehead.

And then there's my sarcasm. I'm guessing that the hardened ladyfolk who get to live out their days in jail may not appreciate The Onion and McSweeney's-heavy attempt at humor that I rip off. Shank in my vagina. For SURE.

I would get the most mail (because my friends kick handmade-card ass) and the most visitors (my Dad's side of the family has insane Catholic guilt), making me stand out as the precious white girl who's too good for this place. Shank zig-zagged into my left eyeball.

I wouldn't align myself correctly because I trust people too much. And I am awkward as all f-ck. Shank in my right eardrum.

I would tell the black girls that I've always wanted to have someone comb my hair and get killed. I would promise the lesbians some good movies but then couldn't find anyone on the outside to download the huge file (4 hours plus!) of Blue is the Warmest Colour and get killed. I would get caught staring at the White Power girls' tattoos (because that horrific lifestyle has always been fascinating to me in that terrible wrong way other people click on zit popping videos), and then be held down while they tried to give me one and I'd kick the leader in the throat and get killed.

Killed. All day. Seconds after being shown my bed. Dead. Everywhere. In the shower with no contacts in, in the yard bending over to pick up a dodgeball that just careened off my temple, at night, at lunch, all the time dead.

Any talent I have to barter or talk my way down from a shank or pantyhose noose would be totally and completely irrelevant. Unless any of the prisoner's need their Facebook Pages updated.

So, essentially I need to keep leading my very very squeaky clean boring life to ensure I stay on this side of the barbed wire. While the thought of a LOT of me time, easy in & easy out jumpsuits and endless lady chats is a tiny bit tempting, I need to remember this: NO. Because: SHANKS IN MY SOFT WHITE MOM FLESH.

What was your favourite moment this season? Tell me in the comments snitches!